by C. M. Owens
I lift some of my necklaces.
“Gypsy charms won’t do you any good. Wearing those is nothing but redundant. As I said, this town is safe and dangerous for gypsies.”
“Yeah, he’s a bit of an obnoxious dick when he talks in circles that way,” the guy says from directly beside me, causing me to swallow back a sound of surprise as he studies Vance with me. “Telling you something and nothing at all in the same breath. You need to ask him specifics.”
“I don’t understand,” I say to Vance, hoping the ghost thinks it was a fluke that our eyes met and moves on soon.
The last ghost I made eye contact with is enough for one gypsy to handle. And I’m starting to worry about her, since she’s been gone for so long.
“If vampires or wolves approach you, just tell them you’re a Portocale,” Vance goes on as though it’s no big deal, as he streaks up the side of my pinky toe.
His foot and leg massages might be heavenly, but his painting skills lack—
So not important right now.
Straining to focus, I open my mouth to speak, but the other ghost speaks first.
“That’d be stupid. Then your enemies will find you if you start claiming to be a Portocale gypsy in the same town where everyone knows monsters lurk. I can be vague too, Portocale gypsy, if that’s your thing,” the ghost says really close to my ear.
For a second, I almost swear I can feel the heat of his breath on my neck, but that’s impossible, because ghosts don’t have breaths.
“Ask him what Damien is,” the ghost goes on, and for whatever stupid reason, the words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Damien Morpheous…what is he?”
Vance pauses, polish brush stopping mid-stroke, as his eyes come back up to meet mine.
“He’s going to give you a bullshit answer, but at least now you can’t pretend not to hear me,” the unnamed ghost says as he takes a seat on the floor, grinning like he’s won a prize as he stares at me.
I only notice him from my peripheral, as I make a vain effort to continue ignoring him.
The new ghost seems entirely too amused with me now.
“Damien is a complicated one to understand, considering he’s a mixture of lores that bleed together and fuse a creature that exists only as him. His creations—”
“His creations?” I ask incredulously.
“Like vampires and werewolves, he can turn humans into something. Though he turns them into things different from himself,” he answers, literally telling me something and nothing at all, just as the annoying new ghost I’ve collected said.
“Such as?”
He finishes painting my toes at last and puts down my foot as he twists the cap back onto the polish.
“Explaining would take up too much time, and your pedicure is finished. Tell people you’re a Portocale,” he goes on.
“Told you his answer would be shite. Don’t worry, love. I’ll fill you in later,” the ghost says as he stands and mimes dusting his hands off, though the sound is absent, obviously.
My gaze flicks to him on reflex, seeing the front of his shirt tucked into a pair of what I think are some kind of old-school bad boy trousers, with somewhat puffy sides, and a narrower ankle on them that slips seamlessly into a pair of tall, leather hunting boots of some sort.
What was he doing when he died? Why does this damn drug keep leaving me vulnerable enough to stare at a ghost I would easily ignore under normal circumstances?
He gives me a smirk and a wink before vanishing from sight.
Vance glances to the vacant spot and then back to me.
“Are you okay?”
“Not even a little bit,” I confess, not bothering to look back at him. “And if I tell people I’m a Portocale—”
“The ones who hunt you are mortal. I can dispatch them easily enough,” he says dismissively.
My eyes do come back to him.
“Then why didn’t you save my mother while she was living here?”
His eyes hold mine for a long moment. I’m positive he’s not going to answer, but he finally does.
“Because your mother would have rather died than ever accept my help under any circumstances.”
“Why?”
“There’s going to be a resounding why to follow up every question I answer, because it’s not as simple as one direct answer. The questions and answers are threaded through some very lengthy, complicated histories that will take a lot of time to sort through. The only thing I can hope is that your ignorance makes you wiser than her.”
That’s not confusing at all.
He struts over to the couch and starts lying out a blanket.
“What are you doing?”
“Making my bed.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m sleeping here tonight,” he answers without turning around.
My lips prepare to parrot my constant question, when another voice startles me.
“There really is a resounding why to follow up every answer he allows,” Anna says from the corner of the room as she swoons a little.
“How long have you been there?” I groan.
“Long enough to remember why I fell in love with him back when he was a Cuban dictator.”
The Van Helsing looks more Norwegian to me.
“I’m sorry, but what?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at me, reminding me he doesn’t know there’s a ghost in the room.
Does he know I can see ghosts?
It’s safe to make no assumptions or confessions in this…state of mind that has rendered me unable to get out of this damn chair.
“Where are you from?” I ask him by way of recovering. “Originally.”
“My family migrated to Romania two generations before I was born,” he answers absently. “I tan fairly better than they do,” he answers without actually answering. Or maybe Romania is the answer?
“Are they still alive?”
“Immortality,” he murmurs a little angrily.
Immortality. Yeah. No. I’m not sure if I buy that.
He aggressively finishes making the bed and exhales harshly as he turns to face me. His hair is just slightly disheveled, and I watch with some amusement as he pushes it back into place, only to seem annoyed when it falls over his forehead again. It’s the most untidy I’ve seen him, and that says a lot after the night we’ve had together.
“Why the fucking hell are you grinning?” he asks me seriously.
“Because you’re so beautiful,” Anna answers him, and for once, I might agree with her.
I guess the final decay is like being in a constant state of high on gypsy spice.
No wonder they pay me so much money. I’ve always been careful not to sample the goods for fear of what I might do on them.
“You worried your stash wouldn’t be as strong as your mother’s, but considering the calm I’ve had while discussing this, I believe it’s damn possible yours is stronger. So why aren’t you collapsed on the floor and passed out, little mortal gypsy?”
“Because I can’t get out of this damn chair,” I answer in a crucial tone.
It’s unbearably adorable when the monster slayer cracks a grin that he can’t seem to immediately wipe away. Especially with that errant lock of hair still haphazardly flopped over his forehead, while he’s standing so confidently in front of me in nothing but those very distracting boxers of his.
“Are you asking for my help, gypsy girl?”
“No. I’m simply alluding to the need of assistance, just to be vague,” I inform him, almost tipping out of the chair when I finally give it all I have to stand.
He’s immediately at my side, lifting me effortlessly before I face-plant the ground.
“He’s only touching you because he can’t touch me,” Anna says, reminding me she’s still here as Van Helsing starts carrying me up the stairs.
I don’t even help him with my weight, because I’m thoroughly wrecked.
“How do you know where my room
is?” I ask as the colorful dots begin to speckle my vision with the swaying motion.
“You’ll find you’re the most interesting thing to stumble into our stale lives in some time. Your room is the least invasive thing I currently know about you.”
“He’s so creepy sexy,” Anna states on a dreamy little sigh. “Just give me fifteen minutes alone with him in the wood shed before he realizes just how boring you are and loses all interest.”
“You’re not borrowing my vagina,” I state sleepily, hearing a snort from above me as a soft mattress finds my back.
Covers are being pulled over me as I try to wiggle into a more comfortable position but fail.
“Certainly not when you’re in this state,” Vance states like he’s amused as he backs away, glancing at me for a second before turning and walking out.
“Ever heard the term ‘use it or lose it?’” Anna asks dryly.
I wait until I hear the click of the door before muttering, “I hate you.”
Chapter 12
DAMIEN
Vance is sleeping on her motherfucking couch. Are you shitting me with this right now?
Carefully and silently, I move all his weapons away from where he’ll know he left them, and then I mask them so that they look like innocent objects just lying around. I flip him off as I turn and start up the stairs.
I’m supposed to be the reckless one. Arion is the psychopath. Emit is the broken, savage beast. Vance is the one who has his knickers jammed up his asshole and is supposed to keep the rest of us in line.
Yet here he is crossing a major line.
Unbelievable.
Staying quiet, I navigate my way around any of the creaking boards I’ve mapped out to keep her from discovering when I’m in her house. Good thing I’m here to check in, since that tool is being very creepy and actually sleeping in nothing but his damn boxers.
Has he no boundaries?
Pushing through her door, I find her literally snoring. Rather loudly and not at all dainty. I guess she slept through a man breaking in and taking up residence downstairs because she couldn’t hear him over that hellacious noise escaping her.
“She’s only snoring because she got so high,” comes a familiar voice at my back, as I do all I fucking can not to alert the ghost that I’m aware of her presence. “She usually sleeps so quiet and still that I think she’s dead.”
How could I have possibly forgotten to stay invisible while this thing lurks around and haunts the curious gypsy?
“She got so high she fucked three men at once, and then she turned around and stole my baby from my arms while I was distracted. I already checked her trunk. It’s not there. But thank you for coming to help me find it, Dr. Morpheous,” she adds, reminding me it’s a safe bet the Portocale gypsy can’t trust a word out of her pet ghost’s mouth.
“My vagina does tricks. She also begs for treats. I feel like you should—”
The ghost squeals just before I’m shoved against the wall, feeling it crack behind me as my breath comes out in a rush. The Portocale gypsy snores right through it, as I grin in the face of the ever-stoic Vance Van Helsing, who is giving me an unimpressed look.
“Any reason you broke into her home and slept on her couch?” I drawl.
“I slept here with invitation.” His lips purse as my brow lifts in confusion. “Sort of,” he adds, bristling as he glares at me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I come around to make sure she’s not simply making a fool of us all, and watch her from time to time when she doesn’t know anyone’s watching.”
His look is weirdly horrified.
“Do you have any idea how sick and creepy that is?” he whisper-yells.
“Highly doubtful that it’s as creepy as you lounging on her sofa with your hand down your boxers,” I’m fast to point out.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Do not come into her house to watch her—”
“Don’t give me this self-righteous tirade. You and Emit watch her from just down the street. I’ve seen you,” I interrupt, rolling my eyes. “You simply can’t get as close as I can.”
His glare would be chilling and terrifying to any sane monster. He’s likely one of the few souls with the power to kill me. I know with absolute certainty he never will, and it only fuels my hatred for him.
He will, however, hurt me without mercy.
“This is crossing a line,” he bites out.
“So you’re the judge of what lines can or cannot be crossed? I haven’t slept over, Captain Underpants. And why do you have nail polish smudges all over your normally preppy fingers? Isn’t your OCD driving you insane?” I ask, distracted by the errant streak of pink here and—
“Is it on your face too?” I ask, noticing a smudge on his cheek.
His eyes narrow even more, turning into near slits, as my lips begin to twitch. “Did you paint the bloody girl in her sleep, you kinky fuck?”
Even with the knowledge that he won’t kill me during one of the few times in my long life that I’d like to not die, I still flinch and stare at him incredulously when a sharp blade is suddenly kissing the flesh of my neck.
“Do you really walk around with something wedged up your ass, or can you now make weapons appear from thin air?” I ask him, actually expecting him to answer this one.
He gives me the usual dry expression.
“I strongly advise you to avoid crossing this line in the future, Damien,” he says with a curt smile.
“This is like all my dreams come true,” the ghost says as she rises up beside us, her hands passing through our shoulders.
I’m sure he’s suppressing the same creeped-out shudder I am.
We both glare at each other as we try to keep the appropriate amount of tension between us, despite the purring ghost beside us.
“I’m way more interesting than her,” she assures us.
“So that means I’m to perv on her from the same thirty or so yards you shits do, then?” I ask him, my lips curving in a grin when I get back to the conversation at hand. “That’s the line you’re marking?”
“So hot,” the ghost says, mocking the sound of heavy breathing.
Why does that gypsy let this thing hang around?
Violet snores on, unaware of anything going on.
“What’d you give her? Just for future reference, so I’ll know what those boundaries are as well,” I go on, metaphorically poking the bear.
He’s like a ghost when he moves. So quick it’s eerily silent, and so rapid you don’t register the motion no matter how fast you are. It’s being one step ahead that always gives him the edge to deliver that killing blow.
The blade pricks into my side, and my face is smashed into the wall, because he’s turned me and is wrenching my arm behind my back before I can process it all. I blame it on the lack of feeding I’ve been able to do for the past millennia.
“Don’t test me, Damien. Arion will be back soon, and he’s going to be enough to handle after being in the ground for a century,” he growls.
I laugh bitterly and possibly too loudly. “What are you going to do, you cunt? Kill me? We both know you won’t, even when I beg,” I say with a fitting amount of resentment.
He’s the only man to ever see my pride fall, and now I have to live with the knowledge that he knows how miserable I’ve gotten.
“No. But we both know I don’t mind hurting you,” he quips like the chipper ass he is when he’s making me miserable.
Then, like the prick he always fucking is, he slams the blade into my thigh. I swallow down the sound of pain that catches in my throat, and glare at him as he grins like the cheeky lunatic the Van Helsings are.
“Care to get this out of my leg now that you’ve sufficiently pissed me off. I’d like to punch your smug face,” I state through a little strain.
“Gladly. We’ll take it to my place,” he says, looking far too thrilled with the prospect of me taking a shot at him.
Emit didn’t look so great last n
ight, but I’m faster than Emit, and it’s been a long damn time since I bruised that smug face of this Van Helsing.
He yanks the damn sword from my leg with no gentle finesse, and I bite back any sound that would bring a smile to his sadistic delight meter.
“Shall we?” he asks, holding up the bloody sword as the snoring ceases.
I smirk as I vanish, masking the blood he’s carved out of me, along with masking the wall that is now in dire need of some repair.
Vance is left out to dry as he whirls around, bloody sword in hand, and Violet scrambles up in the bed, yanking the sheet against her like it’ll protect her better than that pointless cloak would have against wolves.
I hate how attractive a vulnerable Portocale looks. It’s annoyingly distracting and infuriatingly haunting.
“Well, I’m sure this looks entirely wrong,” Vance says tightly, casting a glare in my general direction.
I hope he feels the silent laughter I’m holding back.
“W-w-why the sword,” she stammers, a hint of sleep rasping her voice in a way I shouldn’t find so fascinatingly sexy. “I-i-is that blood?”
I’m going to have to hate this Portocale for being such a damn struggle for me. I’ve been numb for too long to remember the sensations of desire. It’s simply cruel torture to feel anything at all.
Yet the enigma she is, along with the possibilities such a novel thing, holds my attention with too much ease…
It’s continuously chipping away at that very necessary numbness. He’s right. I shouldn’t be coming here, because she’s as drawn to me as I am to her.
Well, when she’s aware that I’m around.
Not that I’ll tell him he’s right. He’s a smug prick sleeping on her couch. If I’m wrong, he’s fucking wrong too.
I’ll point that out when she can’t hear me. For now, I sit back and enjoy the fact Vance, for possibly the first time ever, looks to be struggling for the right words.
“He slayed a dragon for you. I vote you give him a blowie as a reward,” her little ghost friend says as she slides onto the bed next to her.
I don’t envy Vance right now as he struggles not to show any expression. “I’m sure you’re quite terrified, given the events that led up to the daunting confessions last night,” he says in that firm but deflective way of his as the sword recedes, tucking into something he has clutched in his hand.